Winter's Bride
by sweetlittlething
Summary: To escape a life fated for misery and a doomed marriage, Hermione flees into the darkness - and into the Devil himself's awaiting arms. Hermione/Tom Riddle, slight Draco/Hermione. Dark themes
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **DAMN IT! I wrote another story like this first (4000+ unfinished) when BAM!, I realise this is the better plot :(

This is the first Harry Potter story I've ever written, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it (hopefully, even more).

Please tell me whether you like it or not, this is actually the most I've ever written in a chapter, and I would've extended it but I didn't want to drag it on for too long. Thanks for reading, and please review thanks! x

The pairings that _may _be featured include: DEFINITE Tom/Hermione, SLIGHT Draco/Hermione, and more, so... have fun!

I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters, nor do i intend to make profit from this.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: <strong>What the Water Gave Me

_"Time it took us_  
><em>To where the water was<em>  
><em>That's what the water gave me<em>  
><em>And time goes quicker<em>  
><em>Between the two of us<em>  
><em>Oh, my love, don't forsake me<em>  
><em>Take what the water gave me."<em>

- _What the Water Gave Me, _Florence + the Machine

.

.

.

She didn't know what to do.

So she escaped.

To where, she wasn't certain, but all she needed to know was that she needed to _get out, get out, get out. _With no particular destination, and the stars above being her only companion in the dead, quiet night, Hermione ran, adrenaline pumping in her chest, anger surging through her veins. It was a cold, bitter night out in Hogsmeade, signally the ever-approaching winter to come. But she didn't care. She was going to escape her fate, and there was no changing her mind about it.

Dressed in nothing more than a thin white cotton nightdress and her hair still tangled and unruly as it always was, Hermione pushed forth, determined to make it to the next village closest to her own. She must've looked ridiculous, wearing nothing more than a thin nightdress and bare feet that crunched upon the snow, but she didn't care. She _had _to get out, if it was the last thing she was doing.

It was no problem making her way through the deathly darkness of the night. She'd made these nightly ventures before, when she was much too bored to be holed up in her stuffy home, venturing through the once terrifying and mystifying dark for adventure and to quench her ever-present thirst for knowledge. It was pleasant sometimes, running off from home at the dead of night to gaze at the giant, towering willow trees and the now icy expanse of the village's lake.

Tripping on a wayward dead branch, she felt herself collide and make impact with the icy snow before pushing herself back up again. No, she was not going to allow anything to stop her. She was getting out and that was the only thing pushing her.

Though, even now, Hermione felt the anger alleviate itself from herself as she observed her surroundings. The lamps glowing in the dark like giant fireflies, the beautiful silver lanterns of stars set out across the velvet black sky. What others feared Hermione was drawn to. Naturally, of course, Hermione found evil abhorrent and repulsive, but still... there was something that the night's darkness offered which _attracted_ Hermione even closer to it. Like a moth to the flame, they'd said. Her parents had always remarked that one day that odd characteristic of her's would get her into trouble, to which she'd flippantly retaliate as pure nonsense and superstition.

Now, the cold was really getting to her, and her muscles were aching from the chill as the surface of her flesh erupted with goosebumps. What had once been coursing through her veins as adrenaline was now replaced with weariness and exhaustion. Slowing down to a stop, Hermione caught her breath as relief flooded her when she realise where she was: the cemetery.

Hermione felt the dread in her heart lift as she reached the graveyard just outside the small village. She was shivering, and her toes were freezing from the fact that she had stupidly gone barefoot, but she didn't care. Though the graveyard was usually regarded as gloomy and despairing place, Hermione didn't believe so. In fact, if anything, she was intrigued with the names etched on each of the stones, and had often delighted in her younger years copying down the names only to look up who they were in heavy tomes in the local library.

Absent-mindedly, Hermione let her fingers trace across the engraved letters in the tombstone as her mind wandered to more pressing matters. Now that she was relaxed and in a much more calm state, she felt ready to think about the very thing that had driven her out of the village she once called 'home'.

She was getting married.

And worse, against her will.

To a monster.

His name, sheimparted bitterly, was Draco Malfoy.

And he was an absolute _prat._

He was beautiful, of course; platinum blonde hair, stormy grey eyes and perfectly sculpted aristocratic features, but Hermione could see none of it (when one was blinded with incredible bias and rage towards another, it was perfectly understandable). Instead, all she could see through her vision was a pale-eyed, pallid-faced git with a sneer only a mother could love.

In short, he was horrendous. And a complete and utter twat.

It went unsaid that Draco Malfoy had it all - looks (with the exception of Hermione), money, fame and most importantly _pure _blood. Born from a prestigious, ancient and well-off family with an enormous estate and an incredible amount of wealth to his name, Draco Malfoy was considered one of the prime candidates any parent would desire to be married to their daughters. Any woman would be lucky to marry him, many would agree fervently.

Hermione was a rare exception.

For years, she'd been tormented by him - humiliated for her blood status, mocked for her bookwormish tendencies, teased for her bushy hair, jeered at for her choice in friends. _"A filthy little mudblood, that's all that she is," _he'd sneer indignantly, as his friends laughed along with him, _"doesn't deserve to live in a village like Hogsmeade."_

So it didn't make sense at all in Hermione's logical state of mind why on earth, on the day Ron had promptly decided to break up with her, why he, of all people, had dared show up on her doorstep to _propose _to her.

She didn't understand. For once in her life, Hermione had no answers.

_"Granger," _he muttered gruffly, arrogantly, _"I'm asking you to marry me."_

Nonetheless, it wasn't really _her _decision, for if it was, she wouldn't have ended up where she was now - cold, in a cemetery in the dead of night.

It was her mother's and father's.

And they'd agreed right away.

She couldn't blame them, of course. They were desperate. All the parents were, to get their daughters betrothed before the official start of winter. Rushed and impromptu elopings, engagements and weddings were not an uncommon (though frowned upon) occurrence during this time especially.

All because of _him._

_Lord Voldemort. _

For though Hogsmeade seemed like a perfectly innocent village, with its much-loved Honeydukes and its famed belly-warming Butterbeer, it had a secret, a deep, dark, and terrible secret.

Beneath the surface of the ice, slept a beast.

But that wasn't the true horror of the village. It was the one who _ruled _it.

_Voldemort._

It was a tale long told by generation to generation, one which had instilled fear and terror in the hearts of all who knew it.

Or, for the likes of others, had been _victims _to it themselves.

It was a story from many ages passed, back in the days when Hogsmeade had just been established.

Hogsmeade was a remarkable village with a history spanning the centuries, established by four of the most brilliant alchemists and minds of their time: Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin. Incorporating their energies, called by some villagers as 'magic', the village propsered and grew in considerable size. Prospering under the four of them, the village rose to be one of the most wealthy and extravagant villages of them all across the nation, hailed for its abundant crops and ever-advancing technologies and science. Soon enough, many of the villagers who had descended from the four themselves had the magic too within them, while others, whose parents had simply been exposed to the magic in the village for almost all their lives gave birth to children too who possessed such magic, despite no relation to any of the Founding Four at all. Though the citizens could not even harness their magic, it was still a considered a blessing to even obtain such a power at all.

Yet, despite all the great things the community of the village had achieved, magic or no magic, dispute over who should reside in the village arose, namely between Salazar and Godric. Salazar argued that, only the purest of them all, directly descended from the Founding Four themselves, should thrive in the village, while all those who had simply migrated there should be banished immediately. Naturally, ever-compassionate and honorable Godric disagreed.

Conflict arose. Many people suffered and died, and the once peaceful village deteriorated into nothing more than a battlefield drenched in blood and the scent of rotting corpses. Yet, in the end, good prevailed. Godric had triumphed.

However, Salazar was not finished. Bitter with defeat and forced to leave the very thing he had helped build, Salazar left one last mark on the little village of Hogwarts: a curse.

Cursing the village and all who had dared opposed him, the beast, known only as the serpentine Basilisk, was cast into existence, born to sleep beneath the ice and rock of the ground, wielding immense powers capable of obliterating all into oblivion.

But, there was a catch. Salazar, who by then, was an elderly man who had been superbly weakened by his struggles against Godric and his comrades, had no power to control the Basilisk. Instead, he made a prophecy: that only the true heir of Slytherin, Ruler of the Serpents, would possess the power to wield the Basilisk as their greatest weapon, and only then would all the mudbloods be wiped into extinction.

And, with those parting words, he died.

Hermione had never really put much stock into this final part in the fable, despite how seriously her fellow villagers took it, to the point of making ritual sacrifices and offerings to the beast itself. She'd found it morbid, even, how straight after the villagers had banded together to even ruthlessly _murder _Slytherin's last remaining relatives, the Gaunts. She'd regarded it as pure bullocks, simply a tale for parents to warn children from falling into naughty behaviour. "_Be good," _they'd say, _"or the Basilisk will surely eat you up." _It was simply a folk-tale to her, nothing less.

She was wrong.

It was a few years ago, when people started disappearing: muggleborns like her, mostly. Soon enough, one turned to five, five turned to ten, ten to twenty, which exploded to fifty. Livestock, too, began vanishing without a trace.

Soon, a devastating famine swept the village. Crops were mysteriously burnt to nothing more than cinders, the livestock were severely dwindling in numbers, and soon enough, more and more people were not found dead, but petrified - turned stone-still, immobilized, eternally frozen in their fear and horror for inexplicable reasons.

Conspiracies and terrified speculation arose, and yet all came to one shocking conclusion - the heir of Slytherin and his beast, the basilisk, had awaken, to fulfill the prophecy set by their ancestor themselves.

The village was buzzing with fear. Many started leaving, in an attempt to escape their inevitable fates should they continue living there. The village had become a ghost-town - desolate and reeking of despair from every corner. It was a dreadful time, and things only got worse.

People started dying.

She could still remember it, even now. The chill of the air as ghostly fiends known as Dementors, sentient beings from the Underworld came into the village, killing all in their paths with their dreaded 'kisses' and sucking the very life and joy out of each they crossed. The way the elusive, deathly appearances of Thestrals came into vision, only visible to all that had witnessed death. That day, there had been so many deaths.

And _him._

Voldemort, was, as bluntly put as possible, _terrifying. _ Hermione, prided for being called a 'Gryffindor at heart' despite being a muggleborn could not help but shudder at the very mention of the name. He was petrifying, to say the least. Pale white skin, two slits for nostrils, glowing red eyes that must have been human once... he was horrifying. And his _powers_. Tremendously powerful magic, dark magic, that was responsible for the deaths of hundreds. Even without the Basilisk, he was formidable. _Unstoppable._

Finally, after 24 long, horrifying hours, Voldemort ceased his slaughtering. Even then, Hermione could remember him. Cold, untouched. Many had attempted to battle him, but had failed horribly. Dumbledore as well had failed them, having been defeated. Even Hermione's dearest friend Harry Potter had went off to search for help, desperate in the gravity of their situation.

Harry had never returned.

Voldemort hadn't asked for much. Even after all the innocent lives he had taken, he remained as poised, indifferent and eloquent as always, as if the blood splattered on his black cloaks was nothing more than the air around him.

For Hermione, it was almost unbearable.

_"My dear friends," _he'd spoken, in his chillingly high-pitched voice, Hermione bristling at the way he had even dared to address them, _"we can end all this, with no more bloodshed. I know that you are all weary,"_ he paused, his eyes indifferently sweeping through the groups of people, _"and tired of fighting a losing battle, so perhaps we can finally put this all to rest.__ Simply fulfil my one request," _he spoke, _"and all of this unpleasantness can come to an end."_

A deafening silence followed, the villagers each stunned into muteness. None could believe it. Voldemort, negotiating with them to _end _the bloodshed? It was impossible.

Seconds passed like hours, and eventually Voldemort spoke up once more. _"Now now, you really aren't in any position to decline. Just the granting of my one, simple request, can restore peace to this village, and can, rest assured, make sure I never come back to terrorize this village again."_

This time, the villagers were _sure _they'd heard it. Voldemort, granting them mercy? For a simple favour? Whispers arose between the crowds of people, some of excitement, others of worry and anxiety. For Hermione, she was part of the latter.

It was a while before one of the villagers stepped forth to address the Dark Lord. Cornelius Fudge, Hermione could recall, his eyes fearful and suit dishevelled as he projected his voice as best he could without stuttering.

_"My... my Lord,"_ Cornelius began, as Hermione felt indignation and repulsion well up within her for the fact that Cornelius had so easily submitted to the man that had murdered their friends and families, _"my lord, if there's anything we can do..."_

_"Yes,"_ Voldemort cut in swiftly, much to the relief of Cornelius, _"in fact, my request is simple. Simply send to me one maiden during winter, and the basilisk's hunger shall be satiated."_

The request was met by silent, tense shock, followed by a scream from Molly Weasley herself, mother to Hermione's own sweetheart Ron Weasley and friend Ginerva.

_"No, not our daughters! Not my Ginny! Please!_" she wailed, as her husband Arthur Weasley, comrade to muggleborns, attempted to restrain and muffle her pleas.

Surprisingly, Voldemort did not curse her then and there. Instead, quite calmly, he turned to the grieving mother, his face impassive.

_"Do not despair, my dear blood-traitor,"_ Voldemort soothed, resulting in shivers up Hermione's spine for the umpteenth time that day,_ "I'm a reasonable man. Only women who have reached the age to betrothed, not mere children. I will not harm the innocent._" he finished, Hermione vehemently growling inwardly at what a lie that was.

_That bastard, _Hermione seethed, _if he thinks anyone is foolish enough to agree with him-!_

But Hermione was wrong, for cowardly fools they were as Corenlius readily agreed, he himself having no children let alone daughters to call his own. _"We agree, my Lord,"_ Cornelius conceded, quite pleased with the outcome, _"it is promised that in exchange for your glorious mercy we, the villagers of Hogsmeade will readily sacrifice one of our maidens to you with the arrival of each winter."_

And it was done. Hermione could only feel the life suck out of her as the words had passed from Cornelius's lips.

Everything just _stopped._

Because, at that moment, it wasn't the fact that she was angry at how easily her villagers had given up.

It wasn't even that her best friend (_God, _she needed him _so _much) was missing.

It was the fear that that girl who would be given to the Dark Lord himself could be her, next.

And that was what had happened. That was Hogsmeade's dark past. Gradually, as time wore on, the village restored itself to almost its former glory, but it was never the same. Like an ugly scar, the village of Hogsmeade could not forget Voldemort, nor what they had promised to him.

It was the winters that they dreaded.

First, Hermione was thankful, disgusted yet silently relieved it wasn't her that was chosen. The village had wanted to make sure Voldemort would not be angered with their attempts to appease him, so they sent the beautiful pureblood Parvati Patil, causing much grief to her twin and parents.

Horrifyingly enough, they found her dress torn and drenched in blood the very next day, like wine spilled on a canvas of pure, white snow.

But that didn't mean Voldemort had been angered. In fact, much to their relief, he hadn't broken his promise to them, and the next winter, they sent another pureblood Pansy Parkinson, a pug-faced and horribly-tempered yet undoubtedly pureblooded female.

Needless to say, there again they found her dress shredded and soaked in blood the very next day as well.

It became a morbid yet monotonous routine to them: send in someone's daughter, find her bloody clothing the next day and clean it up, thus remaining safe from the Dark Lord for another year. It was immoral and grotesque, and yet no one spoke up about it. Even Hermione, who was so intent on protesting against the act, was harshy reprimanded by her parents for even thinking to do so.

_"No, Hermione!" _her father had yelled, as her mother sobbed into an armchair, _"I forbid you! Do you know what will happen, if you speak up against this? They'll send you next, and you'll end up like the lot of them: gone forever, with your only remains being a puddle of blood! Do you really want to upset your mother? Look what you've done, she's crying, for god's sake!"_

Hermione did not like the reality of her situation, but she could do nothing to stop it. Even Ron, her boyfriend, would have none of her nonsense. It was times like these that she wished she could be like her best friend, Harry. So brave, so strong. She felt like a coward, just like the rest of them as her friends faded away.

Years passed, and it was another miracle that Hermione had yet to be chosen. She was already nineteen, three years well-past her age that enabled her to betrothed. Already, Angelina Johnson, Cho Chang, and Padma Patil had been sacrificed, joining the ever-growing line of brides to the Dark Lord.

But times were getting harder. Girls were now getting married straight-away as soon as they turned 16, or, worse (according to tradition), had begun fornicating before being wed, thus eliminating them as potential sacrifices to Voldemort. Hermione would rather give herself up to a good cause (as horrible as her demise was) than selfishly take the coward's way out. But she knew, deep down, she couldn't blame them.

They were scared. Just like her.

And now, she reflected with great gloom, she would join them. Against her will.

_Married to Malfoy._

The sentence whispered cruelly in her head, emanating over and over again against the walls of her skull, threatening to burst out. The reality of her situation was grim. It was either; a) marry Malfoy and be doomed to a miserable life, or b) possibly become the new victim to Voldemort, hence being sent inevitably to an early and gruesome grave.

She had no choice.

She supposed she had a number of people to blame for her current situation. Draco, for one, for even _daring _to ask for her hand in marriage (why couldn't it have been that handsome Bulgarian Viktor, or even Malfoy's friend the charming Blaise Zabini?), Ron, for dumping her to elope with Lavender Brown (the git), and finally Voldemort, for sealing her to a fate of either living unhappily or ultimately dying. It was the choice to attend her forced wedding or her inevitable funeral.

She wondered, briefly, what it would have been like marrying the way she'd always dreamt to: a big white fancy dress, a stunning ceremony that was of a rather quiet affair, her beaming father and her crying mother, a beautiful, elegant cake, and her groom... her heart ached at the thought of it, at how cruelly fate had snatched the possibility of this happening away from her.

Hermione was so absorbed with her thoughts from that point on that she barely recognised the traces of new heat lingering on her flesh. She continued.

_I'm marrying Malfoy._

Silently, she pondered the idea of Harry's reaction to the idea, and let a small smile trace her lips - the first in the whole day. _Harry... _oh, how she missed him. If he were here, he'd have objected to her and Draco's union, and would have done everything in his power to prevent it (unlike that git of a boyfriend Ron). Afterall_, _Draco _was _his arch-enemy.

But still, though she was now calmed and in a state capable of logical thinking, she _still _had yet to determine Draco's sudden move to marry _her, _a muggleborn and enemy of his of all people. Did he have ulterior motives, to make her suffer, to humiliate her for the rest of her life, to boast to his friends how he, Draco Malfoy, had finally conquered the mudblood-bitch known as Hermione? She rather hoped not.

Or was it something much less sinister? Could it be, that perhaps, Draco was in the end, simply attracted to her and wanted to marry her? Did those cruel jabs and insults he threw at her really contain something else, like affection and love?

Somehow, Hermione found she believed her initial ideas about his intentions more rather than that idiotic musing.

Hermione looked up to the night sky. The moon was getting shrouded in more clouds of mist, casting the cemetery in a much gloomier atmosphere. Hesitantly, she sighed. She supposed she _should _be getting back. Afterall, her mother and father may have gone up to check on her. What would they think, to find their only daughter suddenly gone from her bed? Hermione allowed a wry smirk to grace her face at the thought of how her parents would react. They were pretty paranoid, afterall.

Hermione got up once more, her mind missing the small detail that she felt warm and numb, rather than cold and icy. Her bare feet treading on the pure white blanket of snow thrown over just a thin layer of ice, she walked on and exited the cemetery, cheeks rosy and the tip of her nose red.

It was when she had taken her fifth step since exiting the cemetery that she suddenly halted, dread pumping through her chest.

She'd heard it.

_Someone was there._

Terrified (for the possibility of Dementors or even Inferi wandering around was very likely), Hermione let her wide dark eyes sweep across her desolate surroundings, breath hitched and mind reeling_. _It wasn't uncommon for people to disappear around these parts. Afterall, it was where they often found the blood and clothes of the girls after paying tribute to the Dark Lord himself.

She never usually was this afraid. Often, under normal circumstances, she'd have reasoned that the noises were most likely generated from natural sources, such as a wayward bear making its way out of hibernation, or a fox hunting for prey. Not this time.

It was... _different. _The atmosphere had changed; Hermione feeling the air go colder around her, her heart sink to tragic depths, almost as if... exactly like it was like when...

_Voldemort._

_I need to get out of here, _Hermione reasoned wildly, adrenaline once again flooding through her veins and lungs as her muscles tensed, getting ready to run at the slightest sign of alarm_. _Survival was second nature to her, often relying on her instincts in the past to avoid suffering the same fate as Voldemort's victims.

She barely registered a faint shadow slip across the horizon - too terrified, too frozen in her terror to even move.

She was afraid.

_Move, Hermione, move! _she willed herself, the terror now crawling up from the pit of her stomach.

Suddenly, she heard a twig snap. That was all it took - in a mere matter of seconds, Hermione leapt forth, legs pumping and hair flowing as she sped out of the wildnerness and towards the village. It was exactly how she had come - she needed to get out, get out, _get out. _

Running from what exactly, Hermione did not stop to think, but that didn't matter - so immersed in a state of panic and so driven by the will to escape with her life intact, Hermione ran, each step miscalculated, imprecise, reckless, spurred on only with pure, raw, animalistic energy that it was both her saviour -

and inevitable downfall.

_Almost there, _Hermione thought excitedly, completely unaware that the creature pursuing her had already slipped its way back into the shadows,

_if I can just -!_

Crack.

Suddenly, upon impact with her last footstep, the ice shattered beneath her, Hermione plunging into the cold, icy depths of the frozen-over lake, her lungs filling with frosty water as she felt the terror well up within her.

Looking back, Hermione would have realised that she should have accessed the solidity of the icy surface before running across it, but it was too late.

She was in a dire dilemma, and she needed to get out, or she would definitely _die_.

_Need to... get to... the surface! _she determined frantically, as she desperately clawed her way up through the freezing pitch black water, eager to scramble back up onto the surface. Thankful for her choice of superbly light clothing, Hermione flexibly manoeuvred herself through the water, heart drumming madly in her chest. Kicking as hard as she could, she propelled herself clumsily to the top of the water, relief flooding through her as she dimly recognised the lake's frozen surface above. But her desperate attempts were only met with futility as her hands, outstretched to touch the reassuring cold air, met only the hard, impenetrable surface of the frozen lake.

She was trapped.

Never having been a confident swimmer, Hermione's capacity to continue swimming depleted significantly as she panicked, erratically pressing as hard as she could against the ice. She needed to hurry - time was running out, and it was only a matter of time before hypothermia or the threat of drowning claimed her.

Still, it was no use.

_It's useless, _she inwardly bemoaned, _I can't get out!_

She was going to die.

But was it really so bad? Afterall, even if she _did _manage to escape, what if the entity that was chasing her was waiting for her all along, just to claim her as soon as she got out? And was a life of being Draco Malfoy's consort _really _worth going back to? Hermione felt herself slightly ease as her conciousness slipped further and further away. _I'm tired... _she thought suddenly, brain fuzzy and numb.

It was only a matter of time now before the dark embrace of Death came to claim her, but Hermione had conceded to her fate, eyelids fluttering as her lungs numbly screamed for oxygen. _I'm so... so... tired..._

Wearily, Hermione watched as memories and people from her life danced behind her eyes - her parents... the first time they discovered she possessed magic at the tender age of 7... drinking Butterbeer ... her first kiss with Viktor Krum from a faraway village ... meeting Ron (how she hated him) and Harry... Harry with his green, green eyes...

and _Voldemort..._

Slowly but surely, the lights of life flickered from Hermione's dull, brown eyes, and, for the last time, she closed them, all traces of fear, desperation and sorrow vanishing from her fading mind. Silently, the young muggleborn rejoiced in the comforting darkness and promise of eternal sleep that came.

_Sleep..._

...

...

...

But she didn't. For all of a sudden, Hermione felt her eyes snap open as she drifted peacefully into the depths of the water, her hand absently was grasped by another's, she being pulled a secure grasp. Eyes wide open, Hermione could only barely make out a dark shadowy figure holding her hand, before she felt a sudden tug and pulling sensation. Then, she felt it.

It was a terrible sensation - everything went black, and she was sure she was dead. However, the sudden feeling of iron bands wrapping around her, an intolerable pressure forced upon her gut and chest, and her skull being crushed painfully roused her from that conclusion - the pain was agonising and extremely uncomfortable, to the point that this time she really did, almost pleadingly, beckoned death to take her, just to end the suffering.

It was unbearable, and seemed to stretch on for eternity, but much to her relief, it stopped.

A whirl of cloaks, a choking of lungs -

She was... she was...

_alive._

Spluttering, and drenched in freezing water, the white nightgown now clinging uncomfortably to her icy, pallid skin, Hermione coughed uncontrollably, chestnut locks plastered to her cheeks as she struggled to come to terms with her situation.

She had survived.

The great feeling of triumph that blossomed within her chest was short-lived, however, when the gravity of her situation weighed in on her.

What had happened? And where was she?

Regardless that the possibility of drowning was eliminated, the possibility of death was not - she'd been in the water for far too long, and if she didn't get warmed up soon, hypothermia would be sure to claim her where drowning didn't.

The shivering wouldn't stop; and if she could recall correctly from one of the large medical tomes she'd read in the library, hypothermia also resulted in mental confusion and delusions. Looking around now with bleary eyesight, Hermione could vaguely see she was in a dark, cold, unforgiving place, the floor made of cool dark stone, alongside with the walls. Any other characteristic she could not take in - her gradual slipping into unconsciousness would not allow her.

_Perhaps... I did die afterall... _she mused quietly, as another wave of nausea hit her, like a tsunami crashing upon the coast. Somehow, she willed herself on with enough power not to vomit then and there. The bile in her throat was burning and repulsive, but she refused to expel it then and there.

When the next wave of nausea hit her, however, she could not stop it. Vomiting out water along with the putrid bile, Hermione suddenly felt weaker than ever, this time collapsing on the floor in a tired heap of exhaustion, barely holding on.

She was wrong. She didn't want to die; her wishes to do so before she now found stupid and idiotic. Death as a means of escape... it was cowardly, no better than those girls who had deflowered themselves to avoid becoming Voldemort's new victim for the winter. She still had _so much _to live for... her parents' smiles, learning more and developing her knowledge on magic and its properties, finding out whatever had happened to Viktor and the others after he had left to return home... seeing Ron again just to impart a swift and ruthless vengeance on him for breaking her heart... seeing Harry return to her...

and _Voldemort... _telling Voldemort how much she _hated _him... she was going to keep living, even if it was just to see Voldemort's demise...

and Draco... she hated the git, but, she was willing to keep living, just to make the rest of his life a living hell too.

Hermione Granger did not wish to die.

"I want to _live_." Hermione whispered painfully to no one in particular, a single tear streaking down her already freezing wet cheek.

It did not fall on deaf ears.

And so, the dark and shadowy figure that had been her saviour and in time her destroyer granted such a wish.

_"Mudblood," _a voice echoed throughout the impending darkness, as Hermione gripped tightly to her last strands of conciousness, _"do you truly wish to live?"_

At this, Hermione could not even find the indignity to be offended at the term the voice had used, not even questioning where the voice itself had even come from.

"Y-yes, please..." Hermione croaked. Never before had she felt so pitifully weak. The fear now residing and arising in the pit of her stomach was enough to deter her from falling into the mysterious voice's hands. She just wanted to live, so badly. She heard the voice's source step closer.

"_And you are willing to be mine and mine alone, promised to me for all of eternity?" _it ventured, Hermione vaguely aware of the dark eyes trained on her from the shadows.

"Yes... p-please... I'll do anything..." she pleaded weakly, "just _save me_..."

She was certain she could hear a satisfied 'hmph' as the tense atmosphere faded away. _"So be it then," _it spoke, as Hermione's eyes shut close, _"you're mine. And now, my promise to you..."_

Hermione allowed her eyes to briefly flicker open, just to see an approaching figure reaching down towards her, now seconds away from fading into non-existence. This time, she felt warmth envelop her and flood her cheeks as she whispered out her final words for the day.

"Who... are you?" she asked softly, chocolate brown eyes shutting to a final close as eyelashes batted against rosy cheeks.

The voice hesitated, before it finally replied. This time, Hermione fully drew in the voice, as she was swept up into its strong, warm arms and carried off and away. It was beautiful; deep, sensuous and baritone. Just the way she'd always liked voices to be, she thought dreamily.

"I," it spoke, as Hermione fell into a world of darkness and dreaming, "am...

"_the heir to a great, great king._"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Sorry if it's a bit suckish. I've been working on this for more than a week, writing and re-writing, and I got so impatient that I decided to just leave it as it is. Please tell me whether you liked it or not, and hit the friendly 'Review button' to tell me what you think. :) Thanks again guys, see you soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This chapter is horrible :( I've failed you guys, and now I'm off to cry forever and ever how I disappointed you all :(**

Let me just say, that the response I've received upon submitting the first chapter is _overwhelming. _Never did I think that this little story of mine would garner so much love and attention. I just want to say thankyou so, so much. I have a tendency to release second chapters of my stories late, as I'm afraid that I'll disappoint you guys. I'm sorry if this isn't up to par.

Everyone seems to be really pleased with the length of the chapter (it's the longest I've ever written lol, my limit used to be 2,500 - 3,000 max per chap. But since all of you are lovely, I will be consistent with the first chapter and will write chapters that are roughly 6,000 +.

Again, thankyou so, so much. I appreciate eveyone's input.

Also, **addressing indiat's comment on a possible connection to the legend of St George and the Dragon - **wow, I'd never even thought about it, but the storylines are actually pretty similar :) To be honest, I got this idea when I read Mike Magnolia's _Hellboy Volume 2, _which has a short-story slightly similar to my own :) but your idea of my story being like St George and the Dragon is pretty spot-on, I'd say :D

I have to say, this chapter was very hard to write. Riddle is probably the worst character to write ever.

**BTW GUYS - I'd really be grateful if you can give me some new music, not only for the lyrics for each chapter but to listen to c: I like dark, beautiful songs, also indie, like Florence +the Machine, Dead Man's Bones, Twilight Saga OST (Though I'm not a fan of the franchise lol), Black Keys... please offer some via your reviews for this chapter. If you do, it would make the updating process a lot faster (in terms of finding suitable song lyrics)**

P.S - anyone an anime fan here? You can imagine some of Hermione's dresses as those from Pandora Hearts c: or marie antoinette dresses

I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters, nor do i intend to make profit from this.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: <strong>The Killing Moon

_"Under blue moon I saw you  
>So soon you'll take me<br>Up in your arms  
>Too late to beg you or cancel it<br>Though I know it must be the killing time  
>Unwillingly mine<em>

_Fate_  
><em>Up against your will<em>  
><em>Through the thick and thin<em>  
><em>He will wait until<em>  
><em>You give yourself to him"<em>

_- The Killing Moon, _Echo and the Bunnymen

.

.

.

_"Hermione! Hermione, we have to run!" Harry yelled at the top of his lungs, grasping her hand in his while her other hand latched onto Ron's own. Their palms were sweating and were sticky, and her legs did ache rather terribly, but they had no time to stop. They had to escape and run, run away as far as they could._

_They were only 13, but already they had witnessed so many deaths. Colin Creevy, Nymphadora Tonks, Neville's parents... by the end of the day, Hermione was certain that all the villagers of Hogsmeade could see Thestrals clearly, the mysterious gaunt skeleton-like winged equines flocking to the area to lick the blood off the snow and rotting corpses. When she saw some picking off the blood from the body of a very much dead Cedric Diggory, Hermione could barely suppress the urge to vomit right then and there, instead choosing to turn her head away and swallow the tears and bile back down._

_Everything was a mess._

_"But what about our families?" Ron asked them both anxiously, his pumpkin hair dishevelled and knuckles bloody, "what about them? Are they gonna be alright without us? We have to help them!" he declared, Harry fixing his ginger-haired companion with two sharp green eyes._

_"You heard what Dumbledore said," Harry recounted patiently, as they trudged on, Hermione whimpering as a Dementor flew overhead, obviously in pursuit of someone else, "he said we need to get out of here as quick as possible. Don't worry," he assured the two of them, "mum and dad promised me that nothing bad would happen to them, all right?"_

_Quietly, Hermione observed Harry's face. Where there was distinct fear and terror on Ron's face, there was determination and bravery painted all over Harry's. His glasses were broken, and he had a few cuts and bruises here and there, but he marched on anyways, refusing to display even a hint of fear or uncertainty on his face. Inwardly, Hermione too wished she could be as brave as Harry. She'd always admired him for that._

_Suddenly, they stopped in their tracks, each one panting and sweating profusely, despite the chill of the wintry air. Harry had spotted someone._

_"Mum! Dad!" he cheered happily. Mrs Potter turned her mane of long red hair, horror and devastation etched on her beautiful face. It seemed she and her husband were helping in carrying the injured away._

_"Harry! No!" Hermione heard Mr Potter shout._

_There was a green flash._

__A silent scream.__

_And it was all over._

_All Hermione could remember was Mr and Ms Potter throwing themselves towards the three of them, before she felt a heavy weight collapse against her, sending her catapulting onto the ground. The impact was harsh, and for several moments everything went black._

_"H-harry? Ron?" Hermione muttered weakly, as she came to, sitting up and supporting herself on her forearms as she regained focus. What happened? She noticed she couldn't stand. Something was heavy on her... immobilizing her..._

_"There's something on me..." Hermione winced, as she rubbed her eyes, oblivious to the horror of her situation. When she was met only with a tense silence, Hermione knew at once that something was wrong. Very wrong._

_She looked up. There stood Ron and Harry, Ron's face one painted with shock and pure dismay. Confusion lapped against her. What was wrong? Slowly, she let her eyes wander to Harry's. What she saw sent her into shock._

_There was nothing. What were once green eyes filled with life and joy were now dull orbs of sorrow and emptiness__, as if a Dementor had just kissed him. The look on her best friend's once lively face scared her. Slowly, Hermione followed the invisible vectors of her two best friends' vision, towards her lap._

_She gasped._

_Something shattered. A piercing scream broke the air._

_"No, no, NO!"_

_For there, on Hermione Granger's lap, lay Mr and Mrs Potter's very much dead bodies._

_She was drenched in their blood._

_._

_._

_._

Hermione bolted up-right, lungs wheezing and heart pounding. A slight sheen of sweat covered her pale flesh, but she paid no mind. She knew it was fake, but the terror was _real. _It had wrapped itself around her, blinding her senses, consuming her. The fear that she felt was genuine, exactly as if _he _was around. Slowly, Hermione tried to pull herself back together.

It was just a dream. A memory.

Hermione remembered that day well; afterall, how could one forget the day Voldemort came to the village of Hogsmeade? That was the day so many died, the day she could finally see Thestrals, the day Harry left her... it was Harry's birthday.

_It's gone now, _Hermione reassured herself firmly, pressing a palm against her forehead, _Voldemort isn't here anymore. Nothing like that is ever going to happen again... just calm down..._

Eventually, Hermione managed to return to a state of ease, despite the shaking in her hands refusing to cease. The terror that had seized her though... it had felt so _real... _even now, as she sat upright in the ridiculously comfortable bed, she felt the same traces of fear in the atmosphere that she did when Voldemort was around. She shook her head, hands clenching the sheets covering her as she struggled to take reign of her emotions.

_No! Voldemort isn't here. You're just... just imagining things. Stupid Hermione, _she inwardly chastised herself, _get yourself together!_

Gradually, Hermione allowed her thoughts to drift from the terrifying enigma known as Lord Voldemort to the unfamiliar environment she was currently in. Realising finally that this was not a familiar place, Hermione looked around, brown eyes drinking in every little detail regarding her surroundings as she looked for clues pointing as to where she might be.

A luxurious king-sized four poster bed covered in black silk sheets... large velvet emerald wall-hangings proudly bearing serpents as their emblems... majestic black leather couches... grand elaborate forest-green tapestries... finely polished dark mahogany wardrobes and bookshelves... a crystal chandelier...

This, most definitely, was _not _her home.

"Where am I?" Hermione pondered out loud. It was cool and frigid in the bedroom, casting an unloving and unforgiving atmosphere that made Hermione draw the sheets tighter against her. Subconsciously, Hermione could not help but allow a sliver of anxiety run through her as she shivered. She did not belong here at all.

_"You are where you belong." _A new voice suddenly offered, chills running down her spine as something cold and foreign pooled within the pit of her stomach. It was beautiful; deep, sensuous and baritone. Just the way she'd always liked voices to be -

and then, it came crashing down on her.

She remembered. _Everything._

Draco's proposal, her escape into the cemetery in the wintry dead of night, something pursuing her, her fear, her fall into the icy depths of the frozen lake, the way the water filled her lungs and sent her into almost certain oblivion, the sudden hand of her rescuer, wanting to live so badly, that she, that she...

_promised herself to a stranger._

Almost instantaneously, Hermione felt seeds of horror and terror burst within her as she leapt from the bed, mind racing with fear and adrenaline once again. Once again, she needed to escape. Warm brown eyes desperately seeking an escape route, Hermione inwardly scolded herself for stupidly involving herself to become the property of some... some _stranger _while she continued her search to no avail.

All the while, she was oblivious to the amused smirk playing upon her new mate's lips as he looked on in mildly fascinated interest.

_I have to get out... God, this is about the stupidest thing you've ever done, Hermione Jean Granger! Not even Ron would be this stupid to get himself in some trouble like this... _she chided herself furiously, finally submitting to defeat that there was no chance of escaping.

Slowly, the realisation that she was not alone trickled back into her conciousness. Now, there was nothing left to do but face the man she had unwittingly become the property of, and hopefully convince him that she couldn't really be his. Bracing herself to be brave like Harry, and praying to all the spiritual entities that she could that he would hopefully be just some lonely, merciful man rather than a monster or creep, Hermione turned herself around...

... and let the sheet she was clenching drop.

Where she had expected some monster, or some decrepit old man, she was met with something else.

He was, in short, absolutely _beautiful._

Effortlessly styled ebony dark hair, pale, flawless skin, penetratingly smouldering shadow-coloured eyes... he had breathtakingly beautiful aristocratic features, with the finest face she had ever laid eyes upon. Tall, solid frame dressed in an elegant dark suit and midnight-black cloak, Hermione could not help but feel him reminiscent to a classic gentleman or even a model. He was physically _perfect._

Realising she had probably been staring at him for a good while now, Hermione felt the blood rush to her cheeks as she looked away hastily.

"Who... who are you?" she asked cautiously, fear now being overridden by curiosity and intrigue. "And what am I doing here?" she asked, commanding a bit more power in her voice the second time round.

The handsome stranger chuckled, Hermione flinching yet unnerved as more colour flooded her cheeks. _Even his laugh was perfect_, she remarked inwardly with affection. Quickly, she snapped out of it. _Oh no no, Hermione, you do not even know this man! For all you know, he could be Voldemort 2.0!_

Oh, if _only_ she knew.

The stranger smirked at her, sending Hermione's heart into an erratic flutter, the organ thumping madly against her chest. Even _she, _bookworm and general know-it-all of Hogsmeade was not immune to the charms of attractiveness. Finally, after what seemed like decades, he responded.

"Did I not tell you yesterday?" he remarked coolly, the corners of his lips tilted upwards at her perplexed expression, "I am the heir to a great, great king." he finished cryptically, awaiting the muggleborn's reaction.

Right on cue, the bossy streak in Hermione shone through, as her face snapped into one of slight irritation, all traces of shyness and confusion gone. Intrigued by her expression, the stranger raised a single, fine eyebrow.

"How very coy of you," she remarked drily, amusing the individual even further as she released all timidness, "but when I ask people who they are, they usually give me a name. Does that make you a prince, then?" she ventured, carefully gauging his reaction for any clues as to his identity.

But if facial expressions were open books, his was most certainly closed. Another chuckle. "My," he smirked, "you are _quite _the little Mudblood, aren't you?" but before Hermione could retort at how offensive the term was, or even ask how he knew her blood status, he replied, effectively cutting her down.

"My name," he announced, "is Tom Riddle. And no, I don't suppose I am a prince. But I am a Lord." he said rather smugly, the look of indignation marked on Hermione's face now melting away into curiosity once more. "And you, my dear Mudblood, are my _wife._"

Suddenly, Hermione felt the colour drain from her face. Her blood ran cold.

Did he... just call her... his _wife?_

"Or soon to be, anyhow." he remarked carelessly, briefly turning his back to her, "either way, you're mine. You promised yourself to me, correct?" he smiled innocently, as Hermione just blinked blankly at him.

What followed was a tense, uneasy silence as the words sank in, Tom patiently anticipating her reply. Finally, Hermione reacted.

"No... it can't be..." Hermione muttered in disbelief, "I mean, you don't even know me! I don't even know _you_! Yesterday," she continued weakly, running her fingers through her hair, "yesterday was a mistake," at this Tom's face fell into a cold, hard stare. Oblivious, she continued. "I was confused... I wasn't thinking right, I was _dying_!... Please," she beseeched him, desperate to get her point across, "you've got to understand! I can't get married! We don't even know each other! We can't _possibly _be together-!"

Suddenly, before Tom could react, she burst into a fit of coughs, her lungs and chest aching as her eyes swam with tears. Waves of nausea and dizziness swept over her as fatigue crashed upon her. In no less than a minute, Tom was by her side, dark eyes roaming her for analysis.

"You still haven't recovered fully from yesterday," he muttered in an almost apathetic manner, as if his concern for her wellbeing was nothing more than simply out of politeness, "I'll inform one of my healers to come to you immediately. Wait here." and with a curt nod and a swish of black coats, he was gone.

Minutes of discomfort and distress passed before help arrived. Everything becoming more and more blurred, as Hermione felt the gentle touching of hands upon her as she was pushed back onto the bed, feeling thicker and heavier blankets wrapped around her.

_"...strained herself... needs another dosage..."_

_"... rather weak creatures, aren't they?... those mudbloods..."_

She wanted to protest, to kindly inform them she didn't belong here nor wanted to be here, but she was far too dizzy and tired to care. All she could distinguish amongst the gentle touches and the buzzing of voices was the sudden bursts of warmth upon her flesh. When she felt someone gently grab her chin and force open her lips, she tried to bat them away, to no avail. Slowly, a coppery-tasting liquid trickled down her throat, forcing her into another fit of coughs. Slowly, she felt her eyelids droop.

Everything was getting hazy again.

"No... I can't be here..." she murmured, sloppily cursing herself for becoming so vulnerable and utterly weak. "I need to... go... home..."

But it was futile. Slowly, Hermione felt herself yet again drift from conciousness, and into the irresistible clutches of sleep itself.

_Sleep..._

.

.

.

Another dream.

Hermione startled into conciousness, yet again covered in sweat as she panted heavily. It was another one of those dreams, just like the one she'd had before - of Voldemort's attack. This time she saw poor Sirius Black, Harry's uncle, collapsed on the floor. The memory of that incident was almost too much, as she forcefully restrained the tears swimming in her chocolate brown eyes. Now was not the time to be a weak little coward. She had to be strong. Just like Harry.

It was odd though. Never had she experienced such dreams so vividly, except after they'd announced Harry Potter M.I.A, which was undoubtedly one of the worst moments of her life. She could remember, even now, those dreams of Harry being killed by Voldemort himself as she tried to stop him from facing the Dark Lord himself. Still, even then, she'd only had the nightmares for roughly 2-3 days before they vanished. If her logic was correct, dreams about Voldemort were triggered by incidents relating to him. Seeing as to how he was not within proximity of her, it just didn't make any sense.

_I must be going mad... _she thought, pressing a hand to her forehead, fear still lingering within her. But she did feel infinitely better than earlier. That liquid... whatever they made her drink had warmed her up significantly, and her vision and head had cleared up. That Tom Riddle... she had to go thank him, before saying goodbye to him anyhow.

_Tom Riddle..._

He was certainly an intriguing figure; mysterious, handsome, dark, intelligent... in the span of the few fleeting minutes she'd been with him, already Hermione was more and more confused about his identity and his past than before she'd met him. He was a Lord, he'd said... what did that mean? He was of royal blood? _Pureblood? _Hermione thought with a wrinkled nose of distaste_._ Then again, he hadn't seemed to repulsed to be in her proximity, despite knowing she was a muggleborn. Which begged another question; how did he know she was a mudblood in the first place? There were so many things she wanted to know about him. The mysteriousness and darkness emnating from him both repelled her and attracted her.

_Like a moth to the flame._

In short, he certainly ignited a flame of curiosity within her.

Felling quite calm and confident despite being in unfamiliar surroundings, Hermione pulled away the various blankets slung over her now warm body, before getting up and stretching. If she was going to get any answers around here, she'd need to find Tom first. Yawning, and finally noticing how dark it was inside the room, she frowned. The room looked almost... sinister. Vaguely, it reminded her of Slytherin himself. Paying no more heed to that detail, she began exploring the room for clues, before a swift knock interrupted her search.

"My Lady," a trembling voice called from behind the door, as Hermione approached it to get a better listen, "My Lord, Master Riddle, requests you join him in the dining hall for supper. He's entertaining an audience, so he expects you dress formally for the occasion. There are some dresses in the wardrobes. If the young Miss likes, I can assist you in making an appropriate choice for dining." the voice offered, timid and almost cowardly.

She opened the door. "Of course," Hermione said, attempting to converse in a friendly manner to the servant (perhaps she could coax her to reveal more about Riddle and her location), "I've never gone to a fancy upper-class supper before, so I'd be grateful for some assistance."

However, when she opened the door to allow the servant in, she gasped. For, instead of a simple, elderly maid, there stood a strange, cowering creature.

It was a bizarre being. The size of a small child, the strange creature had two large, peculiar bat-like ears, and two big, watery eyes. Its head much too big for its frail little body, Hermione could not help but pity it more than feel repulsed by the grotesqueness or simple ugliness of it. The fact that it wore a torn, stained rag cloth as its clothing too made Hermione feel all the more sympathetic towards it.

Not knowing how exactly to ask what it was without seeming rude, Hermione opted to ask its name instead.

"My name is Daisy, my Lady," it simpered, big watery eyes trained upon Hermione's own.

Hermione smiled kindly at her. "My name's Hermione," she spoke, "and I think you have a rather lovely name."

The creature smiled its hideous smile at her, and at once it set to work - finding her suitable dress.

.

.

.

She'd never found herself overwhelmingly beautiful; nor attractive for that matter. Where women like Harry's mother (her heart clenched at the memory of her) had beautiful green eyes, she had nothing but plain brown ones. Where girls like Ginny Weasley had long, beautiful locks of scarlet and crimson, she had a mane of brown, fizzy, unruly hair. Likewise, whilst girls like Luna Lovegood had perfectly flawless skin with creamy complexions, she herself wore a skin with freckles. Even now, she couldn't help but feel that any other girl wearing the dress she did now would look positively breath-taking in comparison to her.

_Not that I care, _she grumbled inwardly as Daisy smiled proudly at her.

"My Lady looks beautiful!" the elf squealed joyfully.

At this, Hermione could not help but allow a tiny slip of a smile curve her lips.

Whilst Daisy helped pick an outfit out for her, Hermione had learnt a lot about the mysterious creature. For one, Daisy was what was known as a House-Elf. Apparently, they were very common with Purebloods, despite Hermione not ever having seen one her whole life.

Another point was that House-elves were enslaved to be the loyal and ever-so obedient servants of the Purebloods, sending Hermione into a disgusted rage. According to the various tidbits that Daisy had fed her, House-elves were not unlikely to be subject to torment and punishment from their masters. It made Hermione slightly suspicious as to what type of person Riddle was, despite being seemingly polite and charming before.

But when Hermione had brought up the topic of what Riddle was like, Daisy shut down. Cowering, the House-Elf had shrilly explained that she was forbidden to even talk about or mention Riddle, for fear of punishment. Attempting to ask about her current surroundings instead, the creature shook its head. Apparently, both Riddle and the details of where she currently was were top-secret.

Which made finding out about them all the more interesting.

But Riddle... when Daisy had refused to talk about him, Hermione noticed something. In Daisy's eyes, there was a genuine, pure _terror _in them at the mention of the mysterious young man himself. Slowly, Hermione began to question whether Riddle was really the eloquent, charming, civil man he appeared to be earlier. It was a huge possibility that with all the secrets and terror running about, he was _dangerous._

_I suppose I'm going have to be careful around that Riddle character... even if he _is _my soon-to-be husband... _Hermione thought rather grimly.

Yes, she was sure. Despite appearing quite kind and charming, she could not trust Riddle. If the fear in Daisy's eyes and the fact that he had practically claimed her as his own without consideration of her feelings was anything to go by, she knew she'd have to be weary around him and observe him carefully first.

Turning back to the huge ornate mirror, Hermione looked at herself once more. From all of the elaborate, gorgeous dresses, Daisy had insisted on a stunningly-simple yet elegant white dress, with cream and champagne undertones. Slightly irked by the fact that most, if not, all the dresses had rib-crushing corsets, they had opted for one with a simple bodice that clung to her skin (much to her chagrin) with a skirt that flowed past her ankles and pooled onto the floor. If they were attempting to make a very big impression on the 'audience' Riddle was entertaining, she was sure her current look would, feeling slight disdain at how 'dressy' she looked. Even the diamond teardrop earrings were high-class. Hermione inwardly snorted. It was almost like a wedding gown.

At the mention of 'wedding', Hermione gulped. Her wedding to Draco! She'd forgotten! And her parents! They'd be _livid_ now, realising she was gone!

_I'll just have to worry about them later, _Hermione thought, turning back to face her reflection with a determined face, _for now I'll have to figure out how I'm going to get out of here in the first place._

But getting out... was it really all that good a thing? Afterall, she'd be returning to... returning to...

_Draco._

But it was true. As soon as she returned, she'd be promised to Draco and would hence be wed to him immediately. Then, after the ceremony, he'd take her to his home as his new wife, to fornicate and...

Hermione cringed. Becoming 'Hermione Malfoy' was almost so undesirable that she'd rather marry _Voldemort _than -

Quickly, she turned away from those thoughts, Daisy finally finishing her hair. Absent-mindedly, she noted how her unruly hair had been pulled into a classic albeit uncomfortably-tight chignon. If she had been promised to Voldemort for the start of winter this year, she'd have sooner thrown herself into the icy waters once more than even _dare _think of loving him.

Voldemort was a monster. And she was certain that never, ever in her whole life would she or anyone else ever feel even the tiniest ounce of love for him. He was a destestable monster of a man, one that she would curse forever and ever.

She'd vowed to herself a long, long time ago that if she had to keep any promise to herself at all, it'd be hating the Dark Lord himself for the rest of her life.

By now, her face held that of so icy a demeanour that Daisy's ears drooped slightly. "My Lady...?"

Hastily, Hermione's fell back into pleasant stoicity, her fists unclenching. "I'm sorry, Daisy. Just a little distracted." she said, the elf's face falling into that of relief. "Thankyou for everything." she smiled, directing the kind words to the abashed elf.

"Oh! And Master Riddle doesn't want you getting sick again, so he said bring something warm," the little House-elf piped up, rummaging in the wardrobe, only to pull out a soft fur cape. Hermione draped it around her shoulders, her nose wrinkling slightly. The fact that an animal had died for the pure reason of fashion made her feel slightly sick. Nonetheless, in order to not upset the poor little House-elf, she thanked her once again, following her outside of the bedroom and into an equally-as dark hall.

A nervous anticipation and anxiety gripping her insides, Hermione allowed herself to take a big breath in, before following the tiny tottering figure through the darkness.

.

.

.

"She's late, my Lord."

"Perhaps the poor little wench up and fainted again."

"You don't _really _think she's the one, do you, my Lord?"

Tom Riddle had no time, nor the capacity to quite frankly _care _as he ignored the questions, patiently awaiting for his mudblood to arrive. It was true, she _was _a few minutes late, and he did have a terribly short temper, but he was willing to wait, without inflicting punishments afterwards.

Contrary to many of his minions' beliefs, he did not love nor feel a physical or emotional attraction at all to the girl. For one; she was a mudblood, which was filthy; and two; he was incapable of emotions such as love or affection, except in the case of Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest men of all time, and Nagini, his highly-treasured snake whom both he held in admiration and affection (or as close as he could feel towards such emotions anyhow).

Moving along, there wasn't really anything aesthetically _exciting _about the mudblood anyhow. Bushy brown locks, a slender yet curvy build that was not exactly the most beautiful he'd seen. In comparison to the other women and whores he'd bedded, she wasn't at all that beautiful. In fact, if anything, she was leaning towards the "average to pretty" part of the scale at best.

Not that appearances mattered much to him anyhow. Frankly, he couldn't care less about how he looked either. However, the fact that he _was _quite attractive himself was very beneficial in manipulating others into getting what he wanted, despite the fact he loathed how much he looked like _him_.

But she was a rather interesting character. For instance, her desperation to cling onto her pathetic, pitiful life. Tom almost allowed a snort of derision leave him. Why would anyone want to live a life if they were a pathetic little mudblood, of all things?

There was something else too. In the brief moment he looked into her warm brown eyes, he saw something - a spark, a fire perhaps? Whatever it was, it intrigued him.

Then again, there also was the _reason _why he'd taken her in the first place.

She'd become a rather valuable and important mudblood. Tom smirked. Quite an oxymoron, or a paradox really.

"My Lord," a squeaky voice announced, Tom's swift dark eyes spotting the kneeling House-elf whose face was practically shoved against the ground, "the mudblood has arrived."

As if on default, Tom's face settled into a polite smile, as his eyes wandered to the girl standing in front of the dining hall doors whilst the giant hall fell silent. He had to hand it to that pathetic excuse of a creature. That elf had really done a satisfactory job with making the mudblood look good.

His companions must have thought so too, as he could see out of the corner of his eye Carrow, Rowle, Dolohov, Avery each respectively looking quite hungrily at the dirty-blooded maiden. Even his most loyal follower, Bellatrix Lestrange, looked positively vehement at the sight of the mudblood, her dark hooded eyes practically dripping with venom of the highest toxicity.

He smirked.

Dressed in white? It was a rather amusing choice. Up against the dark interior of the halls, it made her appear like a heavenly, luminescent being, a sacrificial lamb, the only delicate, untainted lily blooming in a field of blood and decay... almost like an...

_angel._

_To be tainted by the devil, _Tom thought, a smug smirk playing on his lips as her brown eyes finally met his own shadow-coloured ones from across the grand room, her lips parting in surprise. Almost as quickly as she had shown her slightly surprise, she masked it, her face suddenly schooled into one of indifference. Riddle could not help but quirk a brow. Most of the girls he'd encountered would continuously blush and stare at the sight of him.

"Aren't you coming to join us?" Tom called out, his voice echoing whilst the mudblood looked at him wearily. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Why was she being so cautious around him? Other women would have practically trusted him from the get-go, whereas she seemed almost reluctant of joining him. Riddle felt his eyes narrow ever so slightly. It was possible that she was going to be a bit of a nuisance, this one.

_Nothing I can't handle._

But he _had _seen a sliver of fire within her earlier, before she happened to inconveniently fall sick. When he'd mentioned who he was, she'd broken out of her nervousness and into a whole other personality: fiery, sharp-witted. Not that he particularly cared. In the end, he was here to break her and use her.

Tom Riddle had no feelings for the girl standing from across the hall.

Slowly, the mudblood walked up to the table, finally taking a seat at the very end of it, directly across from Riddle. Slipping on his façade, Tom forced a polite smile onto his face. It was so easy, so natural. The only time he smiled genuinely and sincerely was when he was torturing some filthy mudblood or attending to his beautiful inheritance hidden in his chambers (which reminded him, it was feeding time soon). Even then, however, the smile was more like a smirk if anything.

The whole thing was mechanical to him. Smile politely, raise the charm, pretend that he actually cared, and the girl would come swooning to him, trusting him with anything. It was quite stupid, really. People were so... gullible.

_They were all fools._

"Are you feeling better?" Tom asked in a civil manner, as he began to dig into turkey on his plate, cutting it with his knife. The mudblood was looking downwards, her mouth a firm line. "You did look quite terrible, yesterday. Even today - the healer said you were quite in a bad state. Did the potion help?" he inquired, forcing every bit of concern he could into his voice. _Perfect delivery._

"I'm fine." she said, Tom noting with amusement the way Bellatrix practically glared daggers at the mudblood, for garnering more attention from himself than she. Tom had always known the fanatic devotion and love Bellatrix possessed for him, more so than the love she had for her own husband, who eagerly supported him too. It was people like the Lestranges that made his life just so _easy._

After a few more moments, wherein Tom exchanged some pleasantries with his ever loyal followers, all in which the mudblood said or did nothing, she finally spoke up, the room buzzing into a deathly silence. Not once did she back down nor cease eye-contact with him as she spoke. It almost amused Tom.

"I want to go back home."

The deadpan in her voice was enough to cause Riddle to smirk slightly.

"Oh, do you?" he challenged, dark eyes smug and focused on the determined mudblood.

Let the fun begin.

.

.

.

Hermione knew she couldn't trust him. Whenever she thought about him, she remembered the way Daisy's eyes practically widened in pure horror and terror, as if she had just seen the basilisk, or Lord Voldemort himself. Though she knew nothing about him, Hermione knew - someone who instilled _that _much terror into someone else was not to be trusted.

Though he _did _save her life. Twice, in fact. First, when he (she suspected it was him anyway) pulled her out of the water (which begged the question: how ?), to when he stopped her from dying from hypothermia. She supposed he couldn't be all _that _bad, if he'd actually put in the effort to preserve her life.

_But he's also claimed it as his own, _another voice echoed in her mind.

That was true. Besides being stuck in a completely unfamiliar place, with no friends and with no one to help her, she had to deal with the troublesome issue of trying to convince Riddle he had no ownership over her, which she was _sure _was going to be difficult, considering how she had practically _given _him her life in the first place. For now, she belonged to Tom Riddle. It would take a lot of effort to convince him otherwise.

"I want to go home." Hermione heard herself say, voice clear despite the trembling of her nerves and heart.

He smirked rather amusedly at her. "Oh, do you?" he asked carelessly, Hermione wanting to wipe that smirk off his face. It was almost as if they were patronizing her, as if they knew something she didn't. Hermione didn't like that.

It took her another while to gather her nerves before answering back. "Yes, I do. I'm sorry, but I can't stay here. My home isn't far, is it?" she asked, trying to look if there were any windows around that would give her an impression of the environment outside the home. There were none.

Suddenly, the dark-haired woman sitting to Riddle's right burst into a series of cackles, Hermione feeling a shiver of fear run through her. Her voice... it was dripping with malice. There was definitely something _evil _about the woman. Inwardly, Hermione felt as if it were a familiar sound, that had instilled despair in her before. Whatever it was, Hermione shook it off, determined not to show fear in front of the sinister strangers surrounding her.

"You don't get it, do you my poor little poppet?" the woman jeered, chest heaving, upper body constricted in a tight-fitting leather corset. Hermione knew from that instant she didn't like her already. "You really don't have any chance of leaving. And we're not in Hogsmeade anymore, my dear." she snickered condescendingly, Hermione's eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Surely they weren't _that _far from her home, were they?

Riddle said nothing whilst the other men gathered around the table chuckled. How far were they?

"Oh my poor, poor mudblood..." the woman finally finished, positively gloating, "I don't think you can go back.

"You, my sweet filthy-blooded simpleton, are in no Hogsmeade.

"You, quite frankly, are in the Underworld itself."


End file.
